Halos

It was the start of my shift. And in that very moment, that instant; I knew; I was in the presence of another halo.
Some people, I'm told, think halos are glowing auras of light that surround the heads of mystical; ethereal figures. But, I don't. I had come to the belief that they were usually curls upon the heads of my patients.
Sometimes in my earlier career days, they were blonde and wispy, or darker and thick. They were on the heads of infants or small children. Precious, beautiful and perfect; no matter the age of their "gestation." Too soon born, or too soon to leave this world.
I could not stay in that area of Nursing. I was not that strong, not that giving. It brought me to my knees and rendered me a lesser person. I left a piece of myself not yet found back there; in that place. My heart? My soul? I don't know; I'm was and am too afraid to look.
With the aged, I've found the pain, of watching the halos on the pillows grow; difficult. It was no easier. There really was no respite. Even there, I've watched the halos grow; white or gray curls turning tighter; reflecting the grief of the Families involved.
So I've concentrated mightily on the comfort of the life left in the room. I've tried to lose myself in the fight, forget what I've felt and concentrate on the tasks at hand.
She was, my patient, losing the struggle with her war, fiercely fighting, but tiring, beginning to slow. Now, she could not find that position of comfort. Her voice testy, restless, moving, settling, moving again.
So I helped her move, plumped pillows for support. Medication for assist of breathing, gentle rubs to shoulders. A Daughter at bedside, "would it help if I rubbed her shoulders?"
"Of course. Whatever you can do that she likes."
I tried to smile; to encourage; to allay the fears in these last hours. Before I left the room to check on another patient, I hugged her. Not the patient; she slept at long last. But the Daughter.
We held each other for a long moment. Comrades in a losing war, but holding the trenches in comfort. Together we held the ground; if only for that moment. Rest, I told her. I'd be back in just a moment. Close your eyes, if only for 5 minutes.
And so she did.
And so it went throughout the night. Two steps back, one step forward. We lost ground, but our patient was safe. And we kept her comfortable. As comfortable as we humanly could. And together we plotted to make things better. How to arrange her meds, her bed, her routine, what tests to fore go. I wrote a long note (letter?) to the Doctor expressing concerns and requests for my patient.
And I watched as she curled, tighter and tighter. But, I had to try. If those were indeed to be her last hours; or days; she deserved care and concern and tenderness.
And my shift ground to a halt.
I went into the room one last time. My patient; my former patient had become restless again. The day shift Nurse and I both worked until she was calm and soothed. I couldn't just walk away without helping.
The Daughter turned to me and then without a word, we embraced. For a long, long moment we held each other. And I tried to give her the strength I had left. Her shift wasn't ending. She would need everything she could get.
"Thank you," she whispered.
I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead as I pulled back. "You're welcome. You take care. You and your Mom are in my prayers." And both of us welled up.
It was time to go. One last look; as the curls swirled ever tighter and I walked out. And in the parking lot, the tears blurred my sight. And there were halos in my vision, everywhere.
OnceAgain